5 TIMES THE DOLLHOUSE GOT TO MELLIE
by snowybaby
Summary: Mellie / Paul: this story, minus the last section, illustrates various ways that Mellie became an Active. It's a mix of cannon and AU.
1. Chapter 1

Title: 5 TIMES THE DOLLHOUSE GOT TO MELLIE, AND THE ONE TIME THEY DIDN'T

Author: snowybaby

Rating: PG-13

Word count: ~ 4,372

Pairing: Paul / Mellie

Disclaimer: All belongs to Joss Whedon and Fox. Sadly, even Tahmoh.

Author's Note: Heya, guys. I just finished writing my first piece of fanfiction. This story, minus the last section, illustrates various ways that Mellie could have become an active. It's a mix of cannon and AU. I'd love some constructive criticism - - since I don't even know what a beta really does or how to get one - - but please be gentle with this first time author. Hope you like it.

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1. after she loses everything:

She doesn't sleep anymore. The house that feels, at best, empty during the day, at night becomes eerily quiet. Her husband had been a snorer. He'd denied it, vehemently, until the day she played a recording of it at the breakfast table. She's not sure what made her laugh harder: the look on his face (sooo. priceless.) or the noise machine - - featuring a fine selection of brooks a-babbling and Amazonian sound effects - - that appeared that night on her bedside table.

_Music to drown out my snoring symphony_ had been written on the attached post-it.

She didn't have the heart to tell him that it took almost two weeks to adjust to the cacophony of sound, amplified in their little room, and get a good night's sleep again. She never guessed that the return of quiet evenings would serve as a piercing reminder of all that is gone. There are dishes piling in the sink (when she used to quote her mother jokingly: "tidiness is a virtue"). There's a door she never opens (what exactly is she supposed to do with a room painted gender-neutral green, with a little train along the trimming, and a half-assembled crib in the center?). And the artificial melody of rivers flowing sets her teeth on edge (it's woefully incomplete without the accompanying harmony of regular, heavy breathing).

She deletes sympathetic voicemails until people stop leaving them. _Look, honey, it's Mom. This is my 23rd message. Just, call me when you're ready._ She'd never been close to her family. They're easy to ignore. She becomes so familiar to the man at the corner bakery that he has her order prepared by the time she gets to the register. _Donut, glazed. Coffee, black with two sugars. Right? _Then she swears off donuts and vows to start ordering-in. The Italian place across the street is supposed to travel well. The only time she really leaves the house is to attend therapy. She goes twice a week and sometimes just sits, trying to breathe. As though the world hasn't crumbled around her and her stomach's not flat when it should be rounder everyday and the car, miraculously restored, minus dents and broken windows and blood, doesn't sit in the garage gathering dust because she can't bring herself to drive it...

Her grief counselor prescribes an anti-depressant. And maybe, if there's a part of her that wants to take all the pills, just keep swallowing, it's small enough to be ignored. The nights don't get better though, so, eventually, a sleep clinic located downtown is recommended. _The facilities are top of the line. You can rock climb during the day. Swim. I hear the masseuse is incredible._ She's just numb enough to agree.

She's not actually paying much attention to what the brunette therapist is saying, in that oh-so-proper British accent. Sips the offered tea so she doesn't have to talk. She just wants to sleep. Barely skims the document detailing the program. Mechanically signs the contract. She wants to forget. Later, she will.


	2. Chapter 2

2. in her apartment:

Attempt # 27 to get the cute neighbor to notice her? Epic fail.

_I should thank you by thanking you._

Did she really say that? She's not sure what it is about the, frankly reclusive, FBI agent that reduces her to stutters and fifth grade vocabulary, but she knows she likes it. He's handsome. So wonderfully...masculine. and tall. Tall is good. She may not be the gold standard in this city, but LA is seriously lacking in nice men over 5'9''. Not to mention with a sweet, crooked smile. For a guy who looks like he could have a revolving door to his bedroom, he always seems a little weary, kinda sad. He never brings anyone home. And she gets that, she does, cuz maybe she's a little lonely too. Big city, shy girl - a good combination this does not make.

So she cleans (her apartment is meticulous), takes long walks on the beach (realizing she should totally get a dog), watches old episodes of BSG (that Helo guy is dreamy), goes to lunch with her friends (wishing they all were a little more adventurous) and starts cooking meals for the literal boy next door (after she catches him paying for take-out six days in a row). She's actually a really good chef and it's something she enjoys doing. So, putting together a quick meal for someone else, can totally be chalked up to a show of neighborly affection. Even though she never eats before going out on "delivery." Shows up armed with an untouched platter of food, filled with enough for at least two...

The man's an FBI agent for god's sake! He really should've picked up on her not-so-subtle hints by now. It's not like she's in love with Paul; it'd just be nice to spend some time with him. But this is the third time he's turned down a free meal, not to mention her silent offer of company. She's thinking that these gentle rebuffs might be his way of letting her down easy, when a rhythmic knock on her door triggers a flair of hope. This dies a quick death when she sees Di...Rick, RICK, through the peephole. The man gets points for the height thing (_and when did she become shallow?_), though the bleached blonde hair, combined with a slightly goofy grin, makes him look like a surfer boy wanna-be, confined to land via the donut shop on 26th and Sunset.

But she's nice, has a meal cooling on the table, he's sorry for the way things ended, and the evening's latest brush-off has her smarting a bit. She steps aside to let him in. How. HOW. Could distance have made her forget about the alien conspiracy theories? She wants to smack herself in the forehead. Stands to get a second glass of wine instead. He's now rambling about banana pancakes, of all things, when a wave of dizziness hits that causes her to stumble into the counter. The wine glass clinks sharply as she sets it down. One hand is braced on the freezer, the other clutches her bent head and she's officially embarrassed. Always been a bit of a light-weight, but com'on. Time for Rick to leave. Gotta shut down any thoughts of drunken reconciliation, right now.

The part apology, mostly excuse, is half way out of her mouth when she actually opens her eyes, only to glimpse a ring of... something not all wine at the bottom of the glass. It's too thick to be pure liquid, looks like watery syrup. She feels the panic set in, but her knees are already buckling. Turns to look at Rick as she's sliding to the floor. Smacks her elbow into the cabinet handle on the way down into blackness.

The world doesn't make sense when she wakes. She's lying in a comfortable chair, but there are pins in her body, straps on her arms and legs, stomach and head. A boy she would normally describe as adorkable hovers nearby, but his techno-babble is deeply unnerving. _Oh, God, what is this? Where am I?_ _Where are my clothes? _There's too much contrast. Overwhelming juxtaposition. Terror. Then a blue light goes on by her head, and she stops caring. She's only aware of the pain.


	3. Chapter 3

3. in the hospital:

Once she makes sure he's alright, and, ya know, not actually going to die from a gun shot wound to the stomach, she's gonna ask how Paul discovered her full name. Sure, he's with the FBI, but this is one of her most closely guarded secrets. A bully had called her Smelly Mellie all through middle school, and that had sucked royally, but she'd never revealed the truth. Admittedly, the teasing would have only gotten worse. This is why she feels a bit like she stuck her finger in a light socket, the shock is so great, when a stranger's voice, over the phone, asks for her by her **given** name. Then there was talk of shootings, and surgery, and directions to the hospital, so she kinda stopped caring for awhile.

Now she's outside his room in ICU. And there's some semblance of order to the madness of the past hour. The doctor was nice, patient. _Not dead. Not dying. You can see him. _But the panicky adrenaline rush had begun to fade, and certain questions were creeping to the forefront of her thoughts. Not the least of which:_ How did he know my name?_ Oh, and the big kicker: _why am I Paul's emergency contact?_ That last one, she wasn't gonna touch that with a thirty-five-and-a-half foot pole. 'Cuz then she'd have to analyze if the gesture meant anything. _It's just putting a name down on a piece of paper. It's just your name on a piece of paper._ If she wants it to mean something. _Duh. _But even she, more social caterpillar (yeah, indoor cocoon with a TV and DVR) than butterfly, can't deny that actively relying on someone else seems out of character for a man one would call, if generous, a loner. Truthfully, kinda driven in his pursuit of solitude.

It occurs to her, only as she steps into his room, that he might not have anyone else to call. That without a meddlesome neighbor, bearing her heart with every plate of spaghetti, he might have been here alone. Her lingering fear for him combines with a sudden wave of sadness. Twists her heart. Makes her bold. After all, Paul is a good man. This she knows with bone-deep certainty. He deserves more than this dark room, empty of worried friends and hastily purchased, get-well flowers. So when she sinks into the uncomfortable chair by his bed, she immediately reaches for him. A small hesitation before making contact with his skin, but her left hand gently settles on his shoulder. Anything else would be hard to reach or awkward, since he's curled away on his side..._doesn't that hurt?_... though the reactionary tensing of his back muscles is easy to detect.

_I promise I didn't come to offer homemade Italian._

It takes a second for her to realize she said that aloud, though things happen quickly in the wake of her awareness. Her mortified flush is instantaneous. He laughs. Immediately grunts in pain. Clutches the hand on his shoulder and just shivers. She freaks a little, never heard merriment shift into agony before, and comes off the chair. She's leaning over him now and her left hand is killing her (the man has a **strong** grip) and her right's braced on the bed and she's pretty sure the comforts she whispers at hyper-speed near his ear are dangerously peppered with endearments, but after a few minutes his movements cease. His muscles fractionally relax. Then he's slowly, so slowly, rolling onto his back. In this moment Paul and Mellie are a study in contrast. His eyes squeeze shut, hers open wide. He breathes out the pain through his nose, and she can't breathe at all, because his right hand is cupping her left, which is sliding from his shoulder and across his chest, which is warm and smooth and solid... some of her best fantasies of kissing him begin with her hand resting over his heart.

That thought hits like a slap to the face and she suddenly remembers. _Bullet. Hurt. Hospital._ Reality swings into focus, including the sharp pressure below her wrist. So when his eyes open, when he looks at her, instead of doing something silly, like trying to kiss him, she wiggles her nearly numb fingers and says it hurts. It takes him a minute to get it, but then he releases her like the touch had burned. He stares at her flexing appendages, an apology written all over his expression, and without thinking she brings her right hand to his cheek.

They're locked in the weirdest staring contest ever invented and she's saying _it's ok, don't worry in_ voice a voice that sounds absolutely foreign. But the hazel in his eyes is deep with a gut-wrenching mix of pain, confusion, sorrow and something like gratitude. She's heard the phrase "trapped in a gaze" before, but this is ridiculous. She knows that the need to break the tension of this moment would be viscerally apparent to her, if she wasn't so completely frozen. He looks at her like he's never seen her before.

Light from the hallway suddenly shoots across the bed. _When did the door even open?_ Her hands fall uselessly to her side. Squinting, both jerk their gaze to the slim silhouette framed by the entrance. A nurse, all long legs and blonde hair, struts across the room. Oblivious to the destruction of whatever interlude has now passed, even more beautiful and exotic up close, she pulls food off a cart, arranges it on a tray, all the while rambling about the patient's need to eat so he doesn't get sick from meds. Mellie would be frustrated, but the girl produces another dessert and flounces out after offering it with an apologetic shrug. _Ok, not clueless after all._

They spend the next hour chatting. Paul eats at a snail's pace, obviously in pain whenever he lifts his arm. She can't find a way to assist without damaging his pride, so she snacks slowly to even things out. The pudding tastes kinda weird, but it's hospital food. She didn't expect fine dining. When it becomes readily apparent that her neighbor is fighting a losing battle against exhaustion and morphine, she moves the tray and starts to stand.

_Stay._

It's more question than command, and delivered with such uncharacteristic vulnerability that she flops right back into the chair. Something a lot like love swells in her chest and makes it easy to agree. She feels sluggish anyway, probably after sitting for so long. His eyes are closed now. The room is dark. She sees no harm in crossing her arms on the bed, resting her head for a little while.

She's clearly having a nightmare. She doesn't do yoga often, so really doesn't understand why she's rolled - - _wait, on a gurney?_ - - past a group of people performing sun salutations, in what must be a high-tech spa. There's something wrong with this place. Not to mention the woman in a kimono and a girl in black leather, swinging a whip no less, whom she passed at the entrance. She closes her eyes. Thinks of Paul's smile, how he looked at her before sleep claimed him, the feel of his heart beating strong beneath her palm. These are the first memories they take away.


	4. Chapter 4

4. at FBI headquarters:

Their conversations follow a predictable pattern. She speaks like a normal person, he answers, and something about his smile, or the tilt of his head or for goodness sake the way his tie matches his eyes, messes with her ability to form coherent sentences. This time she babbles about always meaning to come for a visit. To the Federal Building. Which she's never been to before and has no earthly reason for stepping foot inside, except he needs his pain medication. So, she carries food like it's a weapon. As if a little distance between their bodies will keep her from stumbling all over herself, a girl made awkward by her crush. Embarrassed (_nothing new there_), but at least not blushing, she thrusts the pharmacy bag and platter into his hands, only dimly remembering the letter.

He loses interest pretty quickly when she hands that over. He's strangely hot when focused. She decides it's his intensity. But not a quarter of the passion he shows for finding his mystery girl, bringing down a secret organization, is ever aimed at her. _Hello, he's currently missing out on a nice dress, with lace, and cleavage._ Of course he's never rude and he seems just a little more open, warm, whenever she sees him. But she can't wait around forever, even for a guy she suspects is pretty wonderful. When she leaves and he doesn't even turn his head to say goodbye, Mellie vows to get over him. She's smart enough to admit it might take awhile, if it will ever happen.

She's walking with her head down, talking herself into a good mope, so she entirely misses the man entering the hall. They bump shoulders right outside Paul's offices. And the first thing she notices, after the initial clunk of collision, is his cologne. Nice. Expensive. When she looks up at his _pardon_, thinks cute, in a Nordic, doesn't-see-much-daylight kinda way, but scowly. She barely feels the pinch in the crease of her elbow, but she's already loopy when he grips her biceps, steers her into the stairwell.

It happens fast. Out a side entrance. Into a black SUV. He's up close and personal, buckling her in, and from here his eyes are a sharp, crystal blue. She flails a hand, smacks the badge clipped to his suit jacket. Though everything's getting blurry, she can make out the letters: N. S. A. When he firmly tucks her hand by her side, they come face to face. She watches a muscle tick in his jaw as the drug carries her away.

She wakes on her couch, bummed that she fell asleep during the BSG marathon on SciFi. Paul's knocking at the door. Apologizes for getting wrapped up in work. He promises to take her out for a real meal (translation: order chinese), to make it up to her. He smiles. For once she doesn't say something goofy. Neither can tell that anything has changed.


	5. Chapter 5

5. after the attack:

The hands at her throat rip away and the pressure from thighs mashed against her stomach is suddenly gone. She curls on her side, gags. Draws desperate, ragged breaths, though it hurts. Everywhere. Can't see what's going on behind her, but hears the sick slap of flesh on skin, the grunts of pain. The splintering of a coffee table when someone goes down.

Then Paul is crouched in front of her. Lifts her up by her elbows and sets her against the wall. She doesn't miss the way he frantically scans her body, how he shakes a little when she's finally in his arms, and never once loosens his grip on the gun. He rocks her until the sirens drown out the sound of her tears. He becomes all business for awhile, after the first agent entered the room. Had someone lead her across the hall. Sit her down on the bed. Take a statement. She said things; can't remember what.

Later than night, when the agents have left with their prisoner (unconscious, but alive), Paul climbs into bed behind her fully clothed. He's slow to embrace her, hesitation painfully obvious, but it's all she really wants so she grabs his arm. Pulls him as close as possible, though he's on top of the covers and she's tucked in tight, and presses his fist to her heart. His chest is flat against her back. He slings a leg over both of hers and she feels... so safe. He's holding her now, warm, and everything's alright. He buries his face in her neck and she falls asleep to the murmur of his apologies.

He's gone when she wakes, though the smell of burnt eggs is strong. He's in the kitchen, big hand curled over the handle of an omelet pan. He's scraping something brown, unrecognizable and definitely inedible, into the sink. His knuckles are raw. His face is bruised. And she flashes on putrid breath in her face and whip-cord strength pinning her to the floor and how she tried to call out as blackness closed in.

It's easy to pack two bags. Book a trip. She leaving, not so much to escape the memories or this newfound Paul, who touches her constantly, as if to remind himself she's still there; she runs from the glint in Paul's eyes when he says the word _Dollhouse_. How his desk top is empty of badge and gun, but piled high with files he pours over, late into the night. She promises to come back and wonders what type of man he'll be when she does. Marvels how little life resembles the movies, where tragedy always binds young lovers together, rather than driving them apart. _He doesn't ask her to stay._

She steps outside and the cabbie, who has been leaning against a yellow hood, darts to the entrance. He's reaching for her bags when the light from the lobby reveals a handsome face hidden beneath his dark cap. Foreign. Super-cute... Familiar. _Maybe he's done pickups here before?_ She doesn't care to ask when he gives her a toothy smile, the first one she's seen in days that's actually reflected in someone's eyes, and rolls her luggage to the taxi. He's smaller than Paul, but his light muscles flex when he loads it into the trunk.

It's the bang as it shuts that jerks her into motion. They both move to the back, passenger door, but he's faster. Opens it and stands aside. She's thinking fondly that _chivalry is a alive and _well when he slams her head into the door frame. Catches her as she crumbles with a soft moan. Lays her across the seats and braces an arm by her shoulder, the other rooting through a pocket. It's trauma on repeat, 'cuz he's hovering over her, basically on top of her in the cramped space, and the fear sweeps in with the dizziness. Her head hurts and she can't see straight and then there's a damp cloth over her mouth. She looks at his face, now inches away. Remembers far too late the creepy guy from the hallway. Expects menace in the chocolate brown eyes, finds a strange blankness instead. He sounds vaguely childlike when he whispers, "I'm sorry."

_You know where I am._

This, it turns out, is still true. She knows the way across the hall, so she comes back. Drags Paul from the dark of his obsessions. Thinks about him in the shower. Water. Chest. Not smelly. In his bed. his head down to catch his lips. Stands in his bedroom and can't even begin to decipher the sudden change in his face. Kisses it away. She's falling in love.


	6. Chapter 6

6. Man on the Street: alternate reality

There's blood on the carpet. None of it's hers. Then again, the man in black had almost bled out from a gunshot wound to the chest - - his hair turning a darker shade of red as he lay in the gore - - so some staining is to be expected. Mellie had light scratches only, bad rug burn on her knees though. She died a few feet away, in front of the fireplace. Hands sprawled at her side. His borrowed dress shirt bunched around her waist, where that **thing** had lifted it, so he could try to...

Her head had been tilted toward the door. When he sprinted through the entrance, the first thing he saw was her face, her eyes a deep, sea blue. Had a split second to wonder why she wasn't screaming, didn't seem afraid. Then the reason for her silence and that unfocused stare hit him. Putting two bullets into the intruder still on top of her? That just seemed like the logical thing to do.

Weeks later, when he's still a kaleidoscope of bruises, after days of interrogation (he took a perverse pleasure in watching Hearn tremble whenever he drew near), after the raid of an underground complex located in the middle of the frickin' city (_how did they ever hide something so big right under their noses?_), after scientists pour over a chair and computers (names. locations. handlers. actives. an attic), he finally watches a blue light and software make a doll named Echo into a girl called Caroline. She is stunning and grateful in a way he might have really appreciated, before. He could care less now. Steps out of her embrace and walks away. Doesn't look back.

See, there's a permanent stain in his wooden floor and an empty apartment that will never smell of Italian and a picture of the active known as November clipped to one of the many files on his desk. When he throws that down on the steel table separating him from Adelle Dewitt, this twisted, proper, British mastermind, something tightens around her eyes. _It wasn't meant to happen this way, _she states_._ Not _we needed her, took her, changed her, because of you_.

The omission is a small kindness, which cannot erase police tape stretched across a shattered doorframe or the chalk outline etched on his floor. He's a trained FBI agent _not good or fast enough to save her_ so when he walks through the scene of the crime _that'll never be home again_, it's easy to piece together the attack. The books out of place (surprised by the entrance, thrown into the wall), newspapers on the ground (knocked over the stool), mess in the kitchen (slammed into the counter top), cushions askew (hurled over the couch), the rug pulled back...

_I need her killed and it can't be clean._

...and he stops, because the thought of her crawling for help makes him feel physically ill. Paul can't bring himself to go into the bedroom, with his unmade bed, where she was teasing, and warm and beautiful beneath him. Instead, he slides down the wall, knees to his chest. Stares too hard, until tears make everything blurry, at the broken pieces of his hands-free phone (ripped from her fingers, pitched against the wall after she reached to dial 911). Thinks of the low tone of Adelle's voice, describing the stranger he might have loved… and the call that never came.


End file.
